


Chocolate Croissants

by oldmythologies



Series: Miscellaneous Voltron AUs [3]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-30 04:58:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12101211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oldmythologies/pseuds/oldmythologies
Summary: In which Keith makes bitchin' croissants and Shiro has a routine.





	Chocolate Croissants

Baking was a science. There were always people who’d burst in and try to convince him that he was doing art, his boss included, but Keith found solace in the fact that a specific amount of ingredient, measured meticulously, at a specific temperature, would almost always do the same thing. His chocolate croissants were perfection, every single day. He took pride in that.

Hunk, on the other hand, made a new creation every single day. Today, first thing out of the oven were Hunk’s lemon berry muffins and some weird spiced scone things. Hunk’s magic was art, but Keith new exactly hold to fold the butter into his dough to make sure that the flakes on the outside were perfectly crispy and the inside was perfectly soft. Hunk was the one that taught him, of course, but Keith was the one that discovered how to make it efficient, who found the exact required numbers and processes to guarantee perfection.

It made sense that the creatures of habit, the businessmen who came in at 5:30 AM on the dot every day save for weekends, the runners who stopped in at 6:15 AM and the tired college students who grabbed coffee on their way to class preferred his work. All of them had their schedules, and every single day Keith knew who to expect through that front door.

When the man with the white streak and the scar started coming in at opening every day, Keith thought nothing of it. Just another regular. A runner who liked to be up particularly early and loved chocolate croissants, nothing too peculiar there.

He had a schedule, just like everyone else, but unlike everyone else, who Keith could expect to miss on the weekends or Wednesdays or Sunday through Tuesday, the man with the white streak was there every single day.

He would come in, just slightly out of breath, nose red from the cold winter air, take his coffee and croissant in his gloved hands, nod at Keith, and walk out. After the first month, the man didn’t even need to order. He handed Keith eight dollars exactly and left without getting his change. The same interaction every single day.

Keith kept waiting for the man to catch the flu and miss a single day, but he didn’t; Keith waited for him to be just a few minutes late, but he never was; Keith waited for the jacket to change or the gloves to come off, but they never did. Some time in March the earmuffs were retired, the jacket got lighter, but the gloves never changed. The routine never changed.

It was early May by the time Keith realized that he never learned the man’s name. He always got a black coffee, so Keith would just turn, fill the cup, and hand it over, no need to misspell his name on the cup.

Every single day he saw this man, and over five months later he still didn’t know his name.

It didn’t really matter to Keith. As long as the man appreciated Keith’s perfect chocolate croissants, he was obviously a good person, name not required.

The first day the man with the scar missed was in July. Keith drank the black coffee he had poured for the man himself. It was about time the man got a cold, or, god forbid, decided to sleep in.

He didn’t come in the next day either, or the day after, or the day after that. It wasn’t until his sixth day of absence that Keith began to worry.

He brought it up to Hunk the next night.

“Hey, you know that guy, with the white hair and the scar? Comes in every morning?”

Hunk smiled as he stirred his latest concoction. “Oh, Shiro! Every morning, 5 AM, of course I do. What a nice guy.”

Keith blinked at him. “How do you know his name?”

“Well, I just asked, Keith. He comes in on my mornings too, you know.”

“Huh.” Keith turned back to his folding of the butter.

“What’s up? Is he okay? Are you okay? I’m confused, why are you asking about Shiro?”

Keith shrugged. “He just hasn’t been in for like a week, it’s weird.”

“Oh, I’m sure he’s fine! Shiro’s super cool, he’s probably off on some adventure, doing cool stuff, no doubt. Absolutely no doubt.”

“Yeah.”

Shiro didn’t come back until the first day of August and Keith fought the sigh of relief that threatened to give away his worry.

He smiled as Shiro walked in. The one Shiro returned was more pinched than usual.

“Long time no see,” Keith greeted.

Shiro tensed. “Sorry about that.”

He shoved his right hand into his pocket and Keith noted that it looked like he was wearing a different glove today. Huh.

Shiro rubbed the back of his head with the left hand, cheeks red. Keith wondered why he was so embarrassed all of a sudden.

“How have you been, Keith?” he asked.

Keith started at the sound of his name. Customers very rarely bothered to learn it. “Fine, and you, Shiro?”

Shiro looked equally taken aback by the use of his own name. His smile was tight. “Been better.”

Keith turned around, filled a cup with coffee, and pulled a still warm croissant out of the case, wrapped it, and placed both items on the counter. Shiro pulled eight dollars out of his pocket with his left hand, and when he reached to hand the money over, Keith realized that he wasn’t wearing a glove on his left. He schooled his expression, took the money, and Shiro grabbed his coffee and croissant one handed with a nod.

Keith cocked his head as he watched the man leave, right hand still shoved deep in his pocket.

The routine was back the next day, as were the gloves.

They started talking more, and Keith gained little bits of information about Shiro’s life. One little fact a day: he lived alone, he had a cat, he didn’t have any big plans to leave for the holidays, he was a veteran of some sort.

It was October by the time Keith asked about the gloves, and another month after that until Keith got his answer.

Keith had just came in for the night shift; the store was close and he was alone, cleaning as he waited for the dough to rise. He hadn’t seen Shiro since he’d asked that morning. Shiro had shaken his head and left. He had forgotten his croissant. It was a tingling worry at the back of his mind, but not one that he thought of often. He was focused on a specific spot of dirt on the counter when there was a knock at the front door.

He went to go tell them that they were long since closed, but the face on the other side of the glass caught his attention.

Keith opened the door.

“Shiro?” he asked.

Shiro breathed heavily, uncertainty in his eyes, and stared at Keith. After a few breaths, he spoke.

“This is weird. I’m sorry this is so weird, but I’m supposed to talk to people and you asked.”

Keith blinked at him.

“Can I talk to you?”

Keith blinked again.

“Sorry, I can go.” Shiro turned to leave.

“Wait!” Keith stopped him and stepped back, gesturing at the open doorway. “Yeah, you can talk to me.”

Shiro took a deep breath and walked in.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so hungry now
> 
> twitter [@oldmythos](https://twitter.com/oldmythos)
> 
> tumblr [@oldmythos](http://oldmythos.tumblr.com)


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